


let me love you and then colour me in

by 152glasslippers



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, F/M, POV Frank Castle, POV Karen Page, through TPs1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/152glasslippers/pseuds/152glasslippers
Summary: Everything changes, and nothing changes. Color matters only as another tactical advantage. The woman—his soulmate, what a fucking joke—is nothing to him.He had a family. A woman he loved. And now she’s gone, they’re all gone.Now he has a mission. That’s all he has.He’s not about to let anything—or anyone—get in the way of that.…Except fate has a sick sense of humor.His soulmate doesn’t want to get in the way. She wants to help.Canon compliant soulmate AU where everyone’s world is black and white until they meet their soulmate. Part canon re-telling, part character study, part excessive use of color as a motif.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 24
Kudos: 244
Collections: kastlechristmas2k19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, Sara!
> 
> As soon as I read “soulmate AU!!!!!!!!” in your prompts, I knew I had to write this. I hope you like it, and I hope it was worth the wait <3

He and Maria weren’t soulmates.

They knew it when they met, and they knew it when they started dating, and they knew it when she got pregnant, but it didn’t matter.

It never had. He’d never put much stock in it anyway. Sounded too much like a fairytale.

And life was anything but a goddamn fairytale.

…

It didn’t matter that Maria wasn’t his soulmate. When she died, he felt all the color bleed out of his world anyway.

…

There was war, and then there was his family, and then there was hell.

…

It didn’t feel like a decision, like there was a choice. There was only one thing to do, one way to survive: Put every bastard that took his family away from him in the ground.

…

The whiniest assholes, the weasels, were always the ones to make it out alive.

They were also the easiest to wait out.

Grotto would end up at the hospital, no way around it. And Frank would finish him there, no way around that, either.

…

He misses the shot.

Piece of shit hears him coming, runs from his hospital room like a rat. But he’s not alone. A woman comes through the door first, dragging Grotto behind her, and Frank’s world bursts into color.

He misses the shot.

…

She had blue flowers on her blouse. He finally knows what the color blue looks like.

Too late, too late. He doesn’t care what blue looks like, not when he never knew the color of Lisa’s eyes or the shade of Frankie’s hair.

And now he never will.

…

At least he doesn’t know the exact red of their blood.

…

Everything changes, and nothing changes. Color matters only as another tactical advantage. The woman—his soulmate, _what a fucking joke_ —is nothing to him.

He had a family. A woman he loved. And now she’s gone, they’re all gone.

Now he has a mission. That’s _all_ he has.

He’s not about to let anything—or anyone—get in the way of that.

…

Except fate has a sick sense of humor.

His soulmate doesn’t want to get in the way. She wants to help.

…

When he sees her again, he’s handcuffed and bound to a hospital bed, his face an ugly rainbow of mottled bruises, every color of which she can see.

When he sees her again, she’s got a picture of his family and she’s broken into his house.

When he sees her again, she tramples over that line of tape they both know is red and gets closer to him than even the nurses dared.

When he sees her again, she keeps her eyes on him, even while she’s being dragged from the room.

It’s hard to say whether it’s better or worse than the first time they met.

…

Nelson’s talking to him, the poor kid obviously scared shitless, but Frank’s not listening. He’s staring at her.

The pale yellow of her hair, the darker blonde of her eyebrows. The blue of her eyes—he thinks of those damn flowers again. The pink of her blouse, almost tan in the dim lighting.

He needs to know what she knows about his family, but before this goes any further, before they get any more involved, even just like this, she needs to know something, too.

“I’m guilty.”

…

She agrees to talk to him alone.

She keeps crossing over that line. Like it’s nothing, like it might as well not even be there. Like the blood under his thumbnail isn’t from another man’s eye socket, like everyone in this hospital isn’t so damned terrified of what he’ll do that they won’t even leave an IV in his arm. Like he’s not in this hospital bed only because he doesn’t feel like dislocating his thumbs.

None of that keeps her away. In the end, it’s the truth that scares her.

_My job was to keep them safe. I didn’t._

And suddenly, the idea of her leaving scares _him_.

So he begs. He pleads.

“You stay. Please.”

…

She doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how she doesn’t know, but she doesn’t.

“Why—why am I here? Why did you ask me to stay?”

If she hasn’t realized it yet, he’s not about to tell her. Let her live her life without knowing she’s got a shit bag like him for a soulmate. He’s not interested in her because she’s his soulmate.

He just wants to remember.

…

She’s beautiful. She’s kind. Her cheeks flush pink when she tells him about crawling into a broom closet with ginger snaps. A spaceship to take her far away, she says, and he knows, somehow, how old the memory is, how little she’s spoken it, and now she’s choosing to share it with him.

She’s charming. He laughs. Barely audible, but real. He smiles without a hint of sarcasm for the first time in months. He hates the world even more than he already did.

She’s good. She deserves so much better than him.

…

Nelson delivers the good news—no death penalty—and she’s… _relieved_. Her shoulders rise and fall as she lets out a deep breath; she sinks back against the counter behind her.

More good news: one life sentence with the possibility of parole. And she fucking _smiles_. Soft and pleased when she looks at him, the corners of her mouth turned up.

Bad news: gen pop, and the worry, the uncertainty, is written all over her face, in the lines between her brows, in the glance she throws his way.

She has no idea who he is to her.

So why does she care?

…

“How does the defendant plead?”

His finger twitches on the bed.

He told Red he was done, but that was before. Before—

_You want answers? So do we._

It’ll be messy. It’ll mean a courtroom full of people staring at him and every piece of shit thing he’s ever done dug up and put on display, but he’s never been afraid of wading through shit. He’s lived in it.

It’s not over. He’s not done.

Let it get messy.

…

Nelson and Red have wised up. They send her to answer their questions.

He hears her before he sees her. The clack of her heels. No COs wearing heels. They’re a dark red today, crimson. She’s dressed in all black, and she’s the brightest thing in this place.

He has no idea what she sees, looking at him, but whatever it is leaves her uneasy. She clears her throat, and she’s uncertain again, speaking to him softly, her voice pitching up at the ends of her sentences. Too timid, like she’s trying to keep him calm.

But she’s the one who loses her temper first.

“You don’t cooperate with us,” she spits at him, “it doesn’t matter if I help you figure out who killed your family, you will never see justice. All you will do, the rest of your life, is rot in a goddamn jail cell.”

It’s something to see. Blue eyes flashing; her face, her neck, her chest flushing as her voice rises. Stares him down, picks him apart like he’s nothing. No longer hesitant, no longer afraid.

There’s a breath afterward where she can’t seem to believe she said it, and he realizes: He likes her. Not because she’s helping him, not because of where they are or why they’re here. He just…likes her. His soulmate who fights back.

And there’s a part of him—separate and removed from the grief and the pain, still capable of emotionless, unbiased assessment—that _gets_ it. Why her.

…

“I’ve already looked at all those,” he tells her. “I’ve done it a hundred times.”

“Sure,” she says. “But you haven’t done it with me.” Like it’s simple. Obvious.

Like she was the missing piece.

…

The day Schoonover testifies, her blouse is indigo and he can’t keep his hands still.

He’s back in that tent. He hates that tent. Hates thinking about that night. The dread turned certainty as it all went to shit just like he said it would. The nauseating mix of rage and adrenaline because none of it had to happen; it all could have been avoided. The colonel’s arm, Orange’s eye. Kneeling on the ground in a pool of his own blood with Bill yelling at him, wild-eyed and desperate, scared in a way Frank had never seen him before.

He doesn’t look at her the entire time Schoonover’s on the stand. Doesn’t want to see the weight of Schoonover’s words when they fall on her. The look on her face when she thinks she knows what kind of man Frank Castle is. Her smile because it’s good—the shit he did is _good_ for their case.

Schoonover’s story is only the half of it.

…

“You killed my dad! I don’t give a shit what you’ve been through! You killed him!”

He whips around. The kid can’t be older than eighteen, maybe nineteen.

“I saw him in his coffin with holes in him. He was my dad, and now he’s gone. You took him away from me!”

She’s twisted around in her seat next to him, watching as they drag the kid away, and then she’s—she’s glancing at Nelson like she’s worried about what this’ll mean for them, for his case.

Somehow she’s found it in her heart to be concerned for both of them—Frank, and the kid who’s dad he put in the ground.

…

They sit in silence for a while. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

“I did that, right? That kid. I took his father from him. I did that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

And he wants to say, _See? Do you see it now, ma’am? The shit I can do, the shit I’ve done—I’m not some goddamned war hero_.

But she turns her eyes on him, facing him for the first time since the outburst in the courtroom, and says, “Look, Frank, I can’t judge you.”

His name on her lips, whispered, soft, slices through him like a knife.

“That was tough in there for you, right? You know, it was, uh, hard?”

She takes a deep breath.

“Yeah.”

This is why he didn’t want a soulmate. It’s just another way for him to hurt, another person hurting because of him.

…

“You’ve got to do something for me,” she says. “I need you to take the stand.”

She can’t be serious.

“After this afternoon, I don’t think we have another shot.”

She’s still trying to save him.

“All of them, they all think that you’re a monster. But I know that you’re not. You’re _not_.”

He’s not so sure he can be saved.

“You sure about that?”

He doesn’t think he can go back. He thinks maybe something broke inside of him, or broke loose. Something Maria and the kids—something they were holding back.

The words bleed out of him.

“What if I find these men that did that to my family? And what if—what if nothing changes? What if this is just me now?”

She’s steady in the face of his fear. Blinks once. Only has to consider what he says for a second before her eyes are back on him. They’re greener today, like the ocean, maybe. A richer, deeper color than her icy blue anger. Deep enough to drown all his pain.

“Then don’t you deserve to know that, too?”

…

The suit the guard hands him is brand new, too crisp to have ever been worn. It fits him perfectly. He’s willing to bet she bought it with her own money.

Another way he’ll never be able to repay her.

…

He keeps his eyes on her the entire time they walk him through the courtroom. While he takes the stand, while he’s sworn in, while Red starts his charade.

A red dress today, crimson like the shoes she wore a few days ago. It’s early in the day, so her hair is still parted neatly to the side; she hasn’t run her fingers through it yet. The way it curls in front of her face, across her shoulder, is picture perfect, like the glamour shots of old Hollywood actresses his mom loved.

Except she’s not in black and white. She’s in living, breathing color, and she’s watching him, too.

He wants to memorize her.

If he does this, he’ll probably never see her again.

If he does this, she’ll probably never speak to him again.

…

The horrified look on her face is every bit as terrible as he imagined.

…

Wilson Fisk is a real son of a bitch.

But he’s welcome to underestimate Frank anytime.

…

He’s out of prison for less than 24 hours before Reyes is gunned down.

Blacksmith never should have crawled out from under his rock. Because now Frank knows where to look.

…

If Blacksmith is cleaning house, that means taking out everyone who knew the truth and anyone trying to find it.

That means that piece-of-shit medical examiner.

That means her.

Because she hasn’t stopped.

When he shows up at the motel where they’d been hiding Tepper—the cops called in a homicide, John Doe, trying to keep it quiet—she’s already there. Walking out the front door and climbing into a police car.

Like a couple of uniforms will even slow this bastard down.

…

She’s got a .380 pointed at his chest, and he has to admit: He’s impressed. He wants to laugh, even as she cocks the gun.

Turnabout is fair play.

…

He hears it. Just like last time, he hears it. Only this time, he does something about it.

…

He throws himself on top of her, wraps his hands around her head. Five seconds ago, she was holding him at gunpoint, and now she’s clutching his arm, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He covers her body with his like a promise: Any bullet that hits her, will go through him.

…

They make a plan. He delivers her to the precinct. Follows her. Waits for her in a parking garage.

There’s an old Earth, Wind & Fire tape in the tape deck. He turns it up loud enough to block out the things he knows now: The softness of her hair, the smell of it. The warmth of her body. The sounds she makes when she’s scared.

He doesn’t want to know any of these things, doesn’t want to remember them, to be able to recall them in startling detail. He has the adrenaline to thank for that.

_shining star come into view  
to shine its watchful light on you_

He and Maria used to sing this song. It feels wrong, listening to it without her. He can rewind the tape, play it over and over, and she’ll never hear it again.

…

He takes her to a diner. They wait. He tries not to think about what comes next.

…

The shitty yellow light in the diner paints her golden.

She looks young, sitting across from him. Makeup worn off, hair limp and messy, strands of it tossed over her shoulders, standing out against the black of her coat.

Silverware clatters a few booths down, and she startles. The mask slips. She’s brave, but she’s not stupid. She’s in real danger, and she knows it. Whoever Blacksmith is, he’s ruthless. Nothing he won’t do, no line he won’t cross.

He can’t tell her not to be afraid, won’t waste his breath telling her not to worry. Doesn’t know how to tell her: It doesn’t matter who Blacksmith is or who he sends.

Frank is worse. So much worse.

…

“Maybe it’s not your first rodeo,” he tells her.

“Maybe it isn’t,” she says, and she watches him digest that, face open, laying herself bare for him to see. Another secret she’s choosing to share with him. Not just about her, but about them.

They understand each other.

…

“Almost took the shot.”

The smile she gives him is fond.

“Did you? And, uh, can I ask you why you didn’t?”

“Because I believe you.”

He laughs to hide the way the words turn his stomach.

“You… You’re honest. You never lie to me.”

His heart, beaten and broken as it is, sinks like a stone. It’s the worst answer she could give.

…

“People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it. People that get inside you and, and—and tear you apart and make you feel like you’re never going to recover. Shit. I’d—I would chop my arm off right here, in this restaurant, just to feel that one more time for my wife.”

Maria never needed to get angry to take him down. She’d cut him open with a single look, in a few words. With the truth.

“But she’ll never hurt me again. You see, I’ll never feel that.”

He’s such a goddamn liar.

Because he won’t, not from Maria. But he could. He could feel it again.

He can feel the cracks already.

His soulmate, shot at three times because of him, once _by_ him, and she still believes him. Believed in him when the rest of the city, when his own legal team, thought he was crazy. Fought for him, broke the law for him, lied to the cops for him. Trusts him with her life.

She could destroy him.

But he’d destroy her, too.

“You sit here and you’re all confused about this thing, but you have it. You have everything. So hold onto it. Use two hands and never let go. You got it?”

He’s such a goddamn hypocrite.

But he can’t take his own advice. The best thing for her is if he lets her go. He’s not someone anybody should be holding onto.

…

“Who are they?”

“Just some guys who are about to walk into a diner for the last time.”

It only takes a second for her to realize what all this has been.

“You’re such an asshole.”

Her anger is tempered by disappointment. Resignation. It hurts worse than if she yelled.

Always does.

…

Far from the worst fight of his life, but they don’t go down clean.

After the last shot, he hears her stand up. Step closer. Call his name. Clap her hand over her mouth to smother her sobs.

He’s breathing hard. He can feel blood mixing with his sweat, warm and thick on his skin. He can only imagine what he looks like to her.

“Get away from this thing. Get away from me.”

…

“Been a long time, hasn’t it, Frank?”

He knows that voice.

Gosnell. Which means Schoonover.

Son of a bitch.

…

Betrayal will hit later. Right now, all he has is rage.

…

Her car is in the driveway.

He takes a deep breath. Sighs. He really should have learned by now.

She’ll never give up.

…

_Blacksmith already tried to get me once. I really don’t want to give him a second chance._

_He’s not going to get it,_ he’d told her.

He presses the gas pedal to the floor.

He meant it.

…

He checks her first. Leans over Schoonover, feels for her pulse. She’s unconscious but breathing. No obvious life-threatening injuries.

He leaves her there. She doesn’t need to see any more of this.

…

“Kandahar. You think they would ever let that go?”

…

“Frank, stop.”

She’s here. While the world falls apart around him, she’s here.

Of course she is. His world’s been falling apart since the day they met, and she’s never left his side.

All that ends now.

…

“I’ll help you. I’ll help you figure it out.”

Thing is, he doesn’t need her help. He has his answer.

He’s the one who got his family killed.

…

“No, no, no, no. Frank! Listen to me. Frank! You do this, and you are the monster that they say you are, do you hear me? You do this, and I am _done_. That’s it. You’re dead to me. Do you hear me?”

He takes one last look at her. Arms wrapped around herself, standing ankle deep in leaves and mud in those damn heels. Half her face in shadow, but not the half stained with her blood.

He knows the exact red of her blood now.

He looks his soulmate in the eye and tells her, “I’m already dead.”

…

He’s not.

If he were, it wouldn’t hurt so much to say it.

But she’d be better off if he was.

…

It comes over the radio he took from Schoonover’s shed: Officer down. Struck by an arrow.

…

He takes the shot he knows Red won’t take. He owes him that.

Owes her, too.

…

She’s there, in the crowd. Half a mile away, but he knows she sees him.

All that shit going on, and she sees him.

…

He stands in his house. Stares at the picture of Schoonover on the wall. Thinks about what’s next.

A few of the assholes from the carousel managed to slither away. The whole world thinks he’s dead. And he’s got the time.

…

He finds a truck. He goes hunting. He tries not to think about her.

…

He fails.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Karen?” Foggy asks carefully. “You want to tell me what this is all about?” He’s still standing in the doorway. He waves the bill in his hand. “And what this is for?”
> 
> “It’s your retainer fee. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
> 
> He shuts the door. She downs her shot.
> 
> “Frank Castle is my soulmate.”

There was a time when she thought Matt might be her soulmate.

The world was still black and white, but Matt was blind; it made some kind of sense.

And then the world changed color, and it didn’t anymore.

…

She didn’t notice at first.

She was so hyped up on adrenaline, on fear, on running for her life, on getting Grotto out, that it didn’t even register until Brett walked into the interrogation room with a bundle of clothes and _holy shit_.

The jumpsuit in his hands was orange.

And Foggy’s shirt was blue and Brett’s shield was shining gold in the precinct’s shitty fluorescent light and the walls were an ugly beige, but she could _see_ it.

The red glow of the emergency exit, the purple flyer on the wall, the dark brown wood paneling.

She could see it all.

…

She clung to the idea of Matt like a lifeline.

While the DA threatened to destroy Nelson & Murdock and tried to bury Frank Castle; while the world literally changed before her eyes, she held onto it.

Soulmates weren’t a guarantee. Some people never met their soulmate, or did and still spent their entire lives happily committed to someone else.

So she and Matt weren’t soulmates. It didn’t matter.

…

It didn’t matter.

The fact that they weren’t soulmates was the least of the reasons why she and Matt would never have worked out.

…

Her world got very small.

Nelson & Murdock disbanded, Frank disappeared into the darkness he was so determined to belong to, and even her hours at the Bulletin were mostly spent alone.

And then Matt died and her world got even smaller and she started thinking about soulmates again.

…

It was fucking obvious. It was staring her right in the face.

Down the barrel of a shotgun. From the other side of a line of red tape. In a visitation room, a courtroom, in Ben’s car. In a faded booth in an empty diner in a shitty part of town.

She could have saved herself weeks of research, of tracking down every patient, nurse, and doctor in the hospital that night. Hours of conducting interviews pretending she was writing a human interest piece on soulmates if she would have just opened her eyes and faced the truth, no matter how painful it was.

No matter how much it ripped her heart out and tore it apart.

…

Maybe she needed the interviews. Maybe she needed the list of candidates, carefully crossed off one by one. Maybe she needed to _know_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Because once she admits it, once she says it, out loud—there’s no turning back.

…

She calls Foggy. Tells him she needs to talk. Not at the office, not at Josie’s. Alone.

She shows up at his door with a bottle of tequila and a hundred-dollar bill. It’s been six weeks since she saw him last. She presses the bill into his palm and walks past him into his apartment, pulls down two glasses from the cabinet. Pours them each a shot.

“Karen?” Foggy asks carefully. “You want to tell me what this is all about?” He’s still standing in the doorway. He waves the bill in his hand. “And what this is for?”

“It’s your retainer fee. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

He shuts the door. She downs her shot.

“Frank Castle is my soulmate.”

…

Foggy blinks at her. And then he walks over to the counter, says, “Well, fuck,” and empties his glass.

…

“I’m sorry,” Foggy says, once he’s recovered. She laughs.

“Why, because my soulmate’s a mass murderer?”

“Well, yeah. But, no. Because he’s dead.”

She drops her gaze. Traces her finger around the rim of her glass. There are tiny flecks of silver in the white marble of the countertop.

“Karen.” Foggy leans toward her. She reaches for the tequila to avoid making eye contact. “He is dead, right?”

She doesn’t say anything. Pours herself another shot. Tips the bottle over Foggy’s glass. His head hits his chest.

“Make it a double,” he groans.

…

“You’re not the only one with a scary soulmate, you know.” Half the bottle of tequila is gone. Karen’s shoes are under the coffee table somewhere, and Foggy’s tie is in a crumpled heap on the floor. “I mean, Marci’s never killed anyone—that I know of—but she is terrifying.”

Karen snorts into her glass.

“She’s a powerhouse,” she agrees. An understatement. She nudges Foggy with her foot. “But so are you.”

Foggy nods, takes another sip of tequila.

“Especially sexually.”

She bursts out laughing so hard, she nearly falls off the couch.

…

“Are you drunk enough to talk about it yet?”

Traitor.

It’s late. Late enough that she’s started to sober up, and he knows it. She ignores him. Huddles further under her blanket. Dark yellow. Not garish like taxis, but rich, warm, like sunflowers. Marci must have picked it out. It looks exactly the way Foggy feels.

“Maybe it’s not—maybe it doesn’t mean—” Foggy stops. Tries again. “Maybe he’s not who you’re supposed to be with, Karen,” he says gently. “A lot of people don’t…end up in a relationship with their soulmate. Maybe you were just supposed to help him. And you did that.”

She closes her eyes. She can feel the truth burning in her chest. Climbing up her throat.

She opens her eyes. Foggy is looking at her so hopefully.

But no.

“I love him,” she whispers. “I loved him even before I knew.”

…

_You love him, right?_

_We’re in court—all that shit going on, it’s all over your face. You can’t hide that._

He was right. She couldn’t hide it.

_You love him._

He was wrong. It wasn’t Matt she loved.

…

She’s not sure when it happened. Sometime between _I guess I worry that, uh, the memories are just going to go away_ and _I did it because I liked it—hell, I loved it!_

But she didn’t know until she was stranded in the woods, crying in the middle of a deserted road, barely holding herself together while the pavement dug into her knees and a gunshot echoed through her head.

…

She wants to be angry about it. She _wishes_ she were angry.

She’s just heartbroken.

…

She spends a sticky summer dreaming of black-and-white x-rays and technicolor bruises.

She spends a lonely fall listening to “Shining Star” and wondering if he ever thinks of her.

…

It’s rare she leaves the office while it’s still light out, but Ellison kicked her out as soon as she turned in her article. She might actually have time to cook dinner instead of ordering takeout for the third night in a row. She might actually have time to read something that isn’t for work. She could soak in the bathtub; she could go to bed early. She could—

“Say lady, I’m real hungry. You got any change?” She hesitates. Head down, slumped over, not even making eye contact. Harmless enough. “Please?”

She opens her wallet, hands the man a couple of fives.

She’s barely turned around, hasn’t even snapped her wallet shut.

“Thanks, Karen.”

She stops dead.

Her heart pounds. He shifts the blanket in front of his face.

It’s been almost a year. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

…

“You still got that hand cannon?”

“You better believe it.”

“Attagirl.”

Her stomach flips. She lets herself look at him. The military green of the blanket in his hands, the dark blue wash of his jeans, the wiry black of his beard.

It’s the first time she’s seen him completely free of bruises. His face has a little color to it, like he’s been working outside, under the sun.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. She doesn’t like to picture him living in the shadows.

…

He asks her if they can talk, his eyes shifting away from her and back, like he knows how much he’s asking, like he’s nervous for her answer.

She should at least consider saying no. After everything that’s happened, she should.

She doesn’t.

She was never the first to turn away.

…

He’s in her apartment. She’s not equipped to handle this. She never thought it would happen.

No, that’s a lie. She dreamed of it happening.

But not like this. Never like this.

…

“You want me to help you find them?”

She tries to tell herself it’s enough; it means something that he came to her for help. He blew past her stammered _God, no. No, Frank, you should know me better than that_ like he did know, like asking whether she’d given him up was more of a formality than anything else. He trusts her. That means something.

It’s not enough.

She wants more. So much more.

…

“How do I contact you?” she asks, and he pulls a pot of flowers out of his backpack. The Punisher bought her roses.

“I was thinking if you had something, you could put the flowers in the window? I’ll call you.”

He’s so tentatively hopeful, gruffness gone gentle, and it hurts. Like getting the wind knocked out of her. She’s dangerously close to tears, and maybe he can tell because his whole face softens when he quietly says, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

…

“Thanks, Karen.”

He never used to say her name.

She never wants him to stop.

…

He zips up his backpack, and this is it. Clock’s run out. Another goodbye she’s not ready for.

She throws her arms around him, quick enough he doesn’t see it coming, and it’s something, knowing she can still catch the Punisher off guard.

She feels his confusion, the tension in his body, the hesitation in his hand, even as he catches her, all instinct. And then she wraps her arm around his neck even tighter, and she feels the moment he sinks into it, five fingers against her back, her hair a curtain separating their skin.

She holds on a second too long before she can make herself let go.

…

“Just really good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you.”

Two soulmates who can’t even look at each other.

…

_Be careful._ And then he’s gone.

She doesn’t cook dinner that night. Doesn’t read, doesn’t soak in the tub. She does go to bed early, but not to sleep. She takes the roses into her bedroom, sets them on the nightstand, and crawls into bed.

It never occurred to her that white would look different once the rest of her world was in color. She thought it was one of the colors she knew: black, white, gray.

But it’s brighter when it’s not muddied by grayscale, more brilliant now that she doesn’t confuse it with some other pale imitation. Pure, undiluted, stark, vital white.

She stares at the petals, their pearlescent glimmer, the curling edges, and tries to figure out what he meant by them. Of all the colors to choose from, all the colors they can see—why white?

She can’t decide if it means he knows what they are to each other, or he doesn’t.

…

Digging through old copies of the Bulletin, searching for a single mention of one specific name, brings a foreboding feeling of déjà vu.

Frank’s mysteries never turn up anything good.

…

“Where is this, um… Where’s this story coming from?”

“A source I trust. He gave me a name, told me to dig.”

“And, uh, who—who is this source?”

Ellison’s stalling, which means he knows something.

“It’s—” _A dead man. My soulmate._ “A source.”

…

The article has the answers she’s looking for.

The roses move from her bedroom to her windowsill.

…

It’s sunny for November, nearly cloudless. The river sparkles where the light hits the ripples in the water, a thousand yellow stars.

Franks sits down next to her, close, and for a moment, they’re everything they can’t be: two normal people, soulmates, enjoying the last warmth before winter.

…

“Look, I’ve got to be real clear here: I want to help, but not if it’s going to get someone killed.”

_Especially not if that someone is you._

“If this guy isn’t dirty, if he’s not dangerous, he’s got nothing to worry about from me, okay? Please, just—just help me, Karen. Help me.”

She’s not sure pointing him in the direction of David Lieberman _is_ helping. It starts with her giving him a name, but neither of them has any idea how it ends.

“Or you know what? Or don’t. All right? Just leave my ass in the wind if that’s what you’re going to do.”

She doesn’t know how it ends. But she also knows he won’t stop until he finds out.

…

“Hey, when am I going to see you?”

“You want to?”

“It’d mean you’re still alive.”

The sun filtering through his hair turns the strands from black to brown. The crisp white undershirt, the loose, disheveled hoodie. He looks softer, healthier like this. A different side to the same man. She doesn’t want it to be the last time she sees it.

“Just, uh… Be careful.”

It’s the closest she can come to saying I love you.

…

She’s summoned to the New York office of Homeland Security less than a week later, and the roses go back on her windowsill.

…

The beard is gone, and the beanie pulled low over his forehead undoubtedly covers a new, shorter haircut. It’s like stepping into a time machine. Minus a face full of bruises and a pair of handcuffs, he’s the man she met a year ago.

Except she knows him now. And the smile she can’t seem to keep off her face feels like it matches his.

…

He talks about Frankie the same way she thinks about Kevin. There’s no way to remember him without thinking about the fact that she’s the reason he’s not here.

As desperate as she is to hold on, she would let Frank go in a heartbeat to save him from knowing what that feels like.

…

“I want there to be an after!” She hesitates. “For you,” she says.

But what she means is _for us_.

…

“Look, I—I can’t go after these men and keep you safe. I can’t do both at once—”

“You don’t have to keep me safe.”

“What do you mean, I don’t have to keep you safe? My family’s gone because of what I know. They’re gone!” For a second, the only sound is the rushing water, and then he ducks his head. “K-Karen, I can’t—Hey.” She shifts away from him, trying to protect herself from whatever comes next, but he leans in closer and says, “I cannot let that happen to you—you got that?”

And she knows: He knows exactly what they are to each other.

…

His lips brush across her cheek, a whisper of a touch. A small miracle. The heat of his body, the smell of his skin: gun oil and cold air.

She stands there, wind whipping her hair, until her feet go numb. The lights on the bridge are a blurry kaleidoscope of red, yellow, and blue around her. Her tears wash away any trace of his kiss.

…

He knew.

He knew, and he stayed away for twelve months.

He knew, and he didn’t tell her.

He knows, but does he love her?

…

She goes to work, and she doesn’t think about it.

She stays late at the office and drinks terribly bad coffee, and she doesn’t think about it. She leaves work early, surprises Doris with a visit, and doesn’t think about it. She looks at Doris’s pictures with Ben, holds her hand and lies about what’s on her mind. Pretends not to see Doris’s look of knowing skepticism and does not think about it.

Three bombs go off and a letter arrives in the mail, and she doesn’t have time to think about it.

…

Less than five minutes on the air, and Frank’s name comes up.

The rest of the world thinks he’s dead. Maybe it shouldn’t matter what they say about him.

But it does. It always has.

…

Ellison marches into her office while she’s sitting at her desk, filling out her expense account. It’s her most mind-numbingly boring task, but her concentration’s been shot since Frank told her to _stay put_.

“Answer me one thing,” Ellison demands. “Did you know?”

She has no idea what he’s talking about. He turns on the TV in answer.

“Did. You. Know?” he repeats, his voice angrier than she’s ever heard it.

Dash cam footage of Frank flashes across the screen.

The shock on her face isn’t what Ellison thinks it is, but it is real.

…

She’s listening to Ory’s six-word answers on gun policy and then she’s on the ground, the world smoky and hazy like it was before she met her soulmate.

Gunshots.

She stays on her knees, comes out from behind the couch with her hands raised. Begs. Pleads.

Footsteps.

Someone launches himself between her and Lewis Wilson just as the gun goes off.

 _Frank_.

…

A man with a bomb strapped to his chest has his arm wrapped around her throat. He smells like sweat, and he’s panting in her ear. He’s shorter than she is; she’s bent at an awkward angle, and more than once, his fingers dig into her breasts while he shoves her around.

But her focus is on Frank.

He’s not watching Wilson. He’s watching her. Wilson drags her back into the elevator, and Frank never takes his eyes off her.

“I will come for you,” he says.

She believes him.

…

They burst through a swinging door into the hotel’s kitchen. Wilson lets go of her and starts pacing like a caged animal. She breathes deep.

Frank is coming. She just has to keep Lewis talking.

…

“Wilson!” Frank’s voice roars from the hallway, and then he’s there. Limping, right arm hanging listlessly at his side, blood running from his temple down his neck, but his eyes sharp and alert and intent on hers.

“You know, kid,” he says. “Maybe you were right. Maybe you and me, we are the same.”

It’s exactly what she told him on the phone. He’s not talking to Lewis. He’s talking to her.

“When we were with Curtis, you told me to pull that white wire. You did the right thing, kid.” He nods at her. “You could do it again.”

She glances down at the wires coming from Lewis’s vest. Red, black, white.

Lewis Wilson is 26 years old. He spent most of his adult life in the service. He’s isolated, alone, no one on his side. Odds are, he’s never met his soulmate. His world is very literally black and white.

If any wire matters, it’s the one he’d be least likely to confuse with any other.

…

It’s just her and her soulmate and three colored wires. He buys her time.

And then it’s just her, her soulmate, one wire, and a handgun.

…

“Karen, get out of here.”

“Frank—”

“Karen, you go! Go now!”

“Hell, no! Come on!”

Why doesn’t he understand this yet? She will never leave him.

…

The smoke has a blue tint to it this time. It stings her eyes.

Her ears are ringing. The only other sound is Frank breathing next to her. She reaches out to him, finds his vest. His palm, warm and calloused, slides along her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, his thumb rubbing the skin below her ear.

“Are you okay?”

She’s alive. He’s alive.

She nods.

…

The cops are outside.

She picks up the gun where it’d fallen in the struggle. It’s not even a decision.

“Hey.” She holds it out to him. He looks between her face and the gun like he doesn’t know why she’s offering it to him. “Take it.” Like he doesn’t _want_ to know. “This is your way out, Frank.”

He’s staring at her like she’s crazy. She’s not. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“I’m not holding a gun to your head, Karen.”

She shrugs. “It’s no worse than anything else that’s happened to me today.”

His jaw clenches. The pointer finger on his right hand twitches. They don’t have time to argue about this.

“Frank,” she says quietly. “We have to get you out of here.” She steps forward, puts the gun in his hand. He looks down at it, pressed between their palms, then back up at her, eyes wide. “I trust you.”

…

Her soulmate has an empty gun forced under her chin. He smells like copper, and he’s resting his head in her hair. He’s worse off than she is; she’s holding him up, his chest flush against her back, as much as she’s shielding him. More than one cop has them in their sights, but she stays focused on Frank.

…

His arm is bleeding so much, so badly, his blood looks purple. Blue bruises are starting to bloom along his cheekbone and on his temple, but his eyes are still the same fathomless brown.

…

There’s too much to say, so they don’t say anything at all.

…

He closes his eyes and leans the rest of the way into her space, touches his forehead to hers. His arm under her hand, his skin against hers, his breath on her cheek—everything is warm, and he’s safe. He’s safe where she can keep him.

But she can’t keep him.

…

By the time Brett lets her go, she has eleven missed calls and six new voicemails, all from Ellison. The last one just says, “Go home. Get some rest.”

…

She stands in the shower with her arms wrapped around herself, leans her forehead against the cool tiles, and imagines Frank there with her, the slope of his shoulders curving under her fingers, the callouses of his palms rough against her back, their breath turning to steam. The water running pink, washing them clean.

She’s never felt more alone.

…

She runs her fingers over her roses, hair still dripping wet, dripping perfect drops of water that bead up on perfect petals in perfect spheres and catch the light in perfect rainbows.

She gets into bed and finally lets herself cry.

…

Something happens at the carousel. His carousel.

Homeland Security tries to hide it, but it’s too messy to cover up completely.

…

Her source at the morgue confirms it: No bodies brought in from the park that night.

She puts her roses in the window and tries not to hope.

…

She fails.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you knew…the whole time. You knew when—”
> 
> “When I used you as bait? When I dragged Schoonover into that shed?” _When I slammed the door in your face._ Those are the ones that hurt him the most.
> 
> She lifts her head to look at him.
> 
> “When you said those things about me and Matt,” she says. Like an accusation. Like it’s his most unforgivable sin. And maybe she’s right. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
> 
> The truth sinks like a stone in the quiet of her apartment.
> 
> “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two POV this chapter: **Frank** and Karen.

**It was the way she looked at him.**

**Calm and sure, in a moment of chaos. The way she touched him, careful, her fingers finding the only part of him that wasn’t bleeding. The way she stood in his space and let him stand in hers. Her whispered, _go, go on,_ and the subtle nod of her head. The tremble at the corners of her mouth, trying to smile for him, to let him know she was okay. It was all okay.**

**She knew.**

**He has no idea how long she’s known, but she didn’t before, and now she does.**

…

**The reflective silver sheen of the elevator, the tangled golden mess of her hair. The layer of dust on her blouse, the tear in her sleeve, the cut on her forehead, nearly identical to the one she’d gotten when he’d crashed into her car. Her eyes, so blue, so clear, through all of it.**

**Further back.**

**Her nail polish the day he waited for her on the street, the color of flowers, lilac or lavender. The sun bleaching her hair blonder, the wind turning the tips of her ears pink. Her eyes, red beneath her bottom eyelashes while she tries not to cry.**

**Every memory of her burns in vibrant detail.**

…

**“As long as I was at war, you know, I never thought about, uh, what would happen next.”**

**The truth is, he didn’t let himself think about it.**

…

**It’s late, but her lights are on, something in her window silhouetted in black.**

**Flowers.**

**It’s been a long time since he’s felt anything like hope.**

…

**Footsteps, soft and cautious. A pause. The heavy clunk of something being put down.**

**And then the door swinging open and Karen breathing his name. Throwing her arms around his neck and pressing herself to him, her hair as soft, her body as warm as he remembered.**

**He holds her just as tightly.**

…

He’s here. He’s real.

…

She doesn’t make herself pull away this time.

This time, it’s a slow untangle. Her arms unwind so her palms can find his shoulders; his hands slide from her back to her waist. This time, neither of them lets go.

…

He looks better than the last time she saw him—barely. His face is a patchwork of bruises at different stages of healing: deep purple around his eyes, his nose, the highpoints of his cheekbones; yellow along his temples, the corners of his mouth. A particularly bad bruise stains the right side of his jaw navy blue.

He lets her look, holds himself still under her gaze. Patient but uncertain.

“We should get you out of the hallway,” she tells him. Drops her hands and walks back into her apartment, an open invitation for him to follow.

…

**Her gun is sitting out on the shelf in the entryway.**

**_Attagirl_ ** **.**

…

**The flowers in her window are the roses he gave her.**

**She kept them alive.**

**He reaches out, rubs a petal between his fingers, velvet white. He can feel her watching him, the weight of a hundred unasked questions on his back.**

**“Why white?”**

**It’s not the question he expects.**

**“The last time we’d seen each other…” The rooftop. He drops his hand, turns around to face her. “You didn’t know then. I didn’t want the flowers to be the way you found out. White seemed safest.”**

**It’s not the answer she expects; he can see it on her face.**

**“How long have you known?”**

**“Since I first saw you.”**

**“Oh.” She sits down on the back of the couch. Her gaze falls to the floor, and she wraps her arms around herself like she did in the woods that night. “So you knew…the whole time. You knew when—”**

**“When I used you as bait? When I dragged Schoonover into that shed?” _When I slammed the door in your face._ Those are the ones that hurt him the most.**

**She lifts her head to look at him.**

**“When you said those things about me and Matt,” she says. Like an accusation. Like it’s his most unforgivable sin. And maybe she’s right. “Were you ever going to tell me?”**

**The truth sinks like a stone in the quiet of her apartment.**

**“No.”**

…

_You never lie to me._

That was what she’d told him in the diner that night. The reason she’d believed him, the reason she’d trusted him, the reason she couldn’t let it go. Because he told her the truth. Even when it was brutal, even when it hurt her.

Even when it hurt him.

“What the hell, Frank? So—what? You were just going to let me live the rest of my life not knowing—”

“That your soulmate was a criminal? A killer? A man who shot at you, used you, put you in danger? Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going to do.”

It’s been so long since she’s thought of him that way, since that’s who he was to her.

If that was ever all he was to her.

“I didn’t want you feeling obligated to help me, just because we were—” He can’t seem to say it. “For Christ’s sake, Karen, the last thing I wanted then was for your life to get tied up with mine!”

 _Then._ So what does he want now?

“It did anyway! God, Frank, I was already—” _In love with you._ She can’t say it. Not like this. Not now. “I was already involved.” She sighs, the inevitability hitting her all at once. There’s no timeline, no universe where she doesn’t become involved.

She didn’t need to meet him to want to help him, and she didn’t need to know he was her soulmate to love him.

…

“Look,” Frank says. Shifting on his feet, shifting his gaze away from hers. Nervous, like he was that day on the street. “There’s—there’s some things you should know.”

It’s a peace offering. A pause on this conversation and a promise: to tell her everything this time.

“I’ll make some coffee.”

…

**He sits at one end of the couch and Karen sits at the other. Two mugs on the coffee table and Karen’s knees pulled to her chest so she can face him, leaning against the arm of the couch. He takes a deep breath. Hesitates.**

**It’s hard to start at the beginning, now that he knows how it ends.**

…

**They drift closer, as he talks, and he can’t tell whether he’s pulling her into his orbit, or she’s pulling him into hers.**

…

**“I wasn’t the only one in that room, but I’m the one who killed him. A husband, a father. I did that. I took him from his family. Put a bullet in his head, hid the evidence. Buried him where no one would find him. And I had orders but—I never questioned it.”**

**Karen’s eyes are dark this time of night, deep blue in the shadows cast by the golden glow of her lamps. His heart feels tight in his chest.**

**“Gunner, you know, he—he knew. And he did something about it. He died for it.”**

**_You’ve got to admit who you are. But not just to yourself. You’ve got to admit it to everybody else._ **

**He doesn’t look away when he says, “I let them down twice. I wasn’t the man I should have been—not the man they deserved. And it got them killed.”**

…

**She doesn’t say anything.**

**He waits for her judgment—hatred, disgust, rejection, _something_ —but she reaches across his lap to his right hand, to his index finger tapping against his thigh, wraps her fingers around his, and leaves them there.**

…

**“Bill had _been_ to that park with Lisa and Frankie. They’d taken him on the—”**

**Karen stands, tugging her hand away from his. Yanks their empty coffee mugs off the kitchen table and stalks into the kitchen.**

**It’s so sudden, it startles him speechless, and he watches as she bangs around the kitchen. Tears open the bag of coffee grounds, wrenches the faucet on. Slams the coffee pot into place hard enough he worries she’ll break it.**

**He’s seen her angry, but never like this.**

…

She’s furious.

Her whole body is shaking. She grips the edge of the countertop, hard enough to feel it dig into her palms, trying to steady herself. She hangs her head, closes her eyes, tries to take a deep breath.

She can see him. Billy Russo. Tailored suit, neatly trimmed beard, not a hair or a smile or a word out of place. Charming, confident, cocky. Smug.

She wishes she’d smacked his hand away when he’d reached out to shake hers. She wishes she’d refused to give up her gun and used it to shoot him in the face.

Frank is next to her. She feels him before she hears him.

“Karen?” She hears the unspoken question in the way he says her name: _You okay?_

She doesn’t have an answer for him. She’s so angry, she can feel her blood pulse in her fingertips.

“When did you find out about him?” she manages to ask.

“That day at the hotel. Shot me in the head.”

She looks up at him, at the wound above his right ear, still pulled taut with black stitches. Her eyes move back to his, the brown of his eyes soft and warm. Safe. She’s safe when he looks at her.

She lifts her hand, runs one finger lightly across the raised skin. That makes two gunshots to the head he’s survived.

“And you still came for me.”

It’s not quite a statement, not really a question. It’s too close to the conversation they’re not having, but he answers anyway.

“I can’t let anything happen to you.”

…

She cries when they get to Rawlins. The state David found Frank in.

“David, he said I was gone, and then I wasn’t. Opened my eyes and started choking on my own blood.”

And then she’s crying and laughing at the same time.

“What?” Frank looks alarmed, but she can’t answer. Just shakes her head and puts her hand to her mouth as the laughter stops and the tears come harder.

Only a man as stubborn as Frank could bring himself back from the dead. Twice.

…

“You’ve done that before.”

“Done what?”

“I tracked down your nurse before we took your case, the one who treated you…after. Reyes tried to get you a DNR. She didn’t just try; she succeeded.”

Frank’s watching her closely, warily. _Like a band-aid, Karen._

“Your heart stopped. For about a minute. And then it started again. All on its own.”

He inhales deeply. Exhales.

“Guess I’m not done yet, huh?”

And there’s a hint of a smile on his face, something in his eyes, besides how much this scares him. Like he understands her reaction now.

It’s a good thing, but it hurts. It hurts, but it’s a good thing.

“Guess not.”

…

**Finally, all that’s left is the carousel.**

**“Bill picked it,” he says. Her eyes flash, the same way they did before she stormed into the kitchen, and it occurs to him that Karen’s not the only person in this room with a dangerous soulmate.**

…

**Two kids, a boy and a girl, wrists bleeding. Dinah Madani with a bullet in her brain.**

**“Russo?” she asks.**

**He knows now the answer doesn’t matter, that it won’t change anything. Whatever he says, she’ll stay exactly where she is. With him.**

**“Alive.”**

…

He falls asleep on her couch.

He’s at the end of his story. He’s telling her about pushing the paramedics away from him, making sure they treated Agent Madani and the kids first, and then he’s trailing off, like the truth was the only thing holding back his exhaustion.

He looks peaceful, none of the tension she feared would follow him in sleep. Unbothered, actually, his entire body open and facing her, his knees spread, feet flat on the floor. One arm slung along the back of the couch, the other in his lap. Head tilted to one side, his cheek against his shoulder.

She doesn’t have the heart to wake him. If she wakes him, he’ll leave.

And she doesn’t want him to leave.

…

She covers him with a blanket, turns off the lamps and curls into the opposite corner of the couch, dragging another blanket over herself. She sneaks her toes under his thigh and watches him breathe.

…

**He’s sitting up, but slumped low, and he knows before he even opens his eyes that his ribs are going to hate him for it.**

**The first thing he sees is Karen, lying on her side with her face tucked between a pillow and the back of the couch, still fast asleep. He registers her feet wedged under his leg, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around her ankle. He’s covered in a deep orange blanket—her doing—and he must have slept soundly because it’s still draped across his torso, undisturbed.**

**He tests the feeling in his calves, his toes. Karen doesn’t move.**

**The blanket she’s huddled under is brighter than anything he’s ever seen her wear; blue, white, red, and pink stripes. Last night was the first time he’d seen her out of the snug skirts and dresses. Gray New York Bulletin sweatshirt, soft black pants hugging the line of her legs.**

**Sitting with her now, watching the sunlight stretch across her body, it feels like a gift. Another secret she’s entrusting to him.**

…

**Her legs shift under the blankets, and she turns so he has a clear view of her face when she opens her eyes. They drift open slowly, and then they focus on him, and she looks… _happy._**

**She’s never been more beautiful.**

…

So it wasn’t a dream.

…

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

She knows what Frank sounds like when he yells, and she knows what he sounds like when he pleads. She knows what he sounds like when’s he angry, frustrated, scared. When he teases and when he laughs. When he whispers. Lies. She knows what he sounds like when there are tears in his eyes, and she knows what he sounds like when he’s just broken her heart.

But now she knows what he sounds like when he’s just woken up.

…

“You never told me last night. How is it that you’re even in my apartment right now?”

“I’m not,” he says. “Pete Castiglione is. Madani got me a new identity. Wiped me from the system.”

He got it. An after.

She clears her throat.

“Pete Castiglione is a terrible name, Frank.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not for you to use.”

He’s right. He will always be Frank Castle to her. Every damaged, lethal, tender part of him.

She smiles at the thought.

…

**“Now what?” she asks.**

**And he knows what she means, but it feels too big for him to answer, so—**

**“Breakfast?”**

…

**They walk to a diner three blocks from her apartment. They walk so close their coats brush.**

**Karen links her arm through his, and he thinks maybe this is exactly what he didn’t let himself think about when he wasn’t thinking about what comes next.**

…

She swipes a piece of his bacon, and he retaliates by stealing a bite of her pancakes.

They’re just two people, sitting in a diner, enjoying a meal together. They’re just Karen and Frank.

…

**“Why’d you help me? If you didn’t know?”**

**She looks at him over her coffee mug, elbows on the table, porcelain in her hands. She looks like she’s deciding something. How much to tell him, or which truth.**

**Strands of hair are falling loose from the bun she’d hastily pulled it all into, framing her face, brushing the collar of her sweatshirt. She’d changed into jeans and slipped into a pair of boots, and then they were out the door, bruised and disheveled and somehow in need of more coffee.**

**She looks back up at him, sadness shading every color of her face.**

**“Because I recognized the look in your eyes.”**

…

**This whole time, he’d thought that he’d known and she hadn’t, but that wasn’t the case at all.**

**She’d understood the truth about them long before he did.**

…

She watches him absorb this, gives him a second before she admits the rest of it.

“You’re not the only one with blood on your hands.”

He’s either the one person who could understand, or he’ll stand up and walk away from this table forever.

…

He doesn’t walk away.

He reaches across the ugly yellow table and tugs her hand away from where it’s wrapped around her coffee mug. Closes his fingers around hers and strokes a line across her knuckles, rough and gentle. He makes sure her eyes are locked on his and then he says, “Maybe you’ll tell me someday, yeah?”

She exhales, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You planning on sticking around that long?” Casual, like she only has a passing interest in the matter. Like his answer won’t change her life; like it won’t tell her exactly how he feels about her. Like she doesn’t feel a tear slide down her cheek or Frank’s fingers squeeze hers when he sees it.

“Yeah, I think I might.”

…

It started in a hospital room, and then it ended in a courtroom. In a diner, on a pier, in the woods. In a park next to a river, in a hotel elevator. They’ve had a dozen endings.

They’ve had a dozen beginnings.

Her bullet-riddled apartment, a Motown song on a tape deck, a glimpse of a shadow on a rooftop. A pot of flowers, a phone call, a rescue.

But the most important beginning—the best beginning, her favorite beginning—is this one.

Because this one doesn’t come with an ending.

…

**She has a smudge of syrup on her bottom lip.**

**He wants to kiss it off.**

**He wants to kiss her short and sweet, a quick goodbye, a see-you-later, so many times it becomes routine. He wants to kiss her long and deep, until every breath in his lungs is one she breathed, until he’s forgotten the time and the day of the week. Until she understands that she gave him permission to live. And a reason to save himself.**

**He wants to take her to bed, memorize every inch of her body. He wants to see her naked in sunlight, by moonlight, in shadow. He wants to know what she feels like in the dark, when he can only see her with his hands. He wants to feel the pad of her fingertips tracing his scars, the ends of her hair tickling his skin, the weight of her body on top of his. He wants to worship her, kneel between her legs and taste her. He wants to see her come, wants to be inside her when she does. When he does.**

**He wants to fall asleep surrounded by the smell of her. He wants to wake up and do it all again.**

**He wants to make a second key to her apartment, cook her dinner when she works too late, wait for her to come home. He wants to spend a thousand more hours on her couch, listening to the sound of her voice, her stories, her memories. He wants to find out if her feet run cold, if she’ll tuck her toes under his legs again, if it’ll become a habit.**

**He wants to know every one of her smiles. He wants to hold her when she cries.**

**He wants to drive with her in a car he hasn’t stolen, wants to apologize properly for the one he wrecked. He wants to know whether she sings along to the radio or watches the streets go by in silence. He wants to take her to the beach, to see if the color of her eyes really does match the ocean. He wants to know the color of her sunburn, whether she tans. How much darker her hair gets when it’s wet, whether her eyes turn gray with the rain. He wants to keep her hands warm between his when she forgets her gloves and they get caught in a surprise snowfall. He wants to watch the snow melt in her hair, and he wants to take her home and thaw their frozen bodies with a hot shower, soapy hands roaming her back while the water turns their skin pink.**

**He wants to watch the white roses on her windowsill grow, wants to buy her a whole rainbow of roses, or whichever flower she prefers. He wants to know her favorite flower. He wants to read her favorite book. He wants to know what she’s working on before he sees the headline in the paper. He wants to argue with her about which leads are too dangerous to follow, to fight with her when she tells him those are the ones most worth following. He wants to compromise; he wants to protect her. He wants her to write the truth, and he wants to hunt down anyone who threatens her while she’s in search of it.**

**He wants to make promises. He wants to keep them. He knows he’ll get it wrong sometimes: He wants to spend the rest of his life trying to get it right.**

**He loved Maria—he will _always_ love Maria—but he wants to tell Karen that he’s glad it’s her, that meeting her, his soulmate—even with everything that came before it, even though he couldn’t admit it at the time—is one of the best goddamn things that has ever happened to him.**

**He wants to tell her the moment he knew she could destroy him and the moment he knew he couldn’t stay away from her.**

**He wants to tell her he loves her.**

…

**He will.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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